by Jack Leavers
‘I saw George yesterday up at the club and he asked me to pass on a message to you. There are some people who want to meet with you to discuss Iraq. Tomorrow.’
Pete was referring to his contact at the Special Forces Club in London. Earlier in the summer we’d all met with an executive from an oil company with a concession in Kurdistan. That meeting hadn’t resulted in any business, but it showed me the club might be an avenue to meet serious players involved in business in Iraq.
‘Sounds interesting. What time are we going up?’
No need to check my diary; it was still mostly empty apart from a small due diligence job that was waiting on an agent report before I could finish my own final report.
‘I’m not going to be there. They want to meet with you only.’ Pete’s tone was flat.
‘Okay, so what time?’
If anything, that was better for me. Pete wasn’t involved in my Iraq business in any way and I’d be able to prevent the discussion from deviating and losing focus on my key objective: to secure a revenue-generating agreement by hook or by crook.
After a brief, nondescript call to George, Pete confirmed the meeting was set for 3.00pm the following afternoon. Good job I hadn’t packed for Iraq yet. Either of my two decent suits would still be okay to wear without needing a press at the dry cleaners.
Chapter 32
NEAR HARRODS, LONDON — JANUARY 2005
The Special Forces Club was located behind Harrods in London’s Knightsbridge. Although I’d served as an attached rank at a British special forces unit (SBS) for a couple of years whilst in the Corps, that didn’t qualify me to be a member. I had never attempted selection, let alone become a ‘badged’ rank as those who succeeded were known. In the SBS they were also known as ‘frogs’, with the unit emblem at that time displaying a parachuting frog.
In the summer I had been told that there might be a way in, but I had no desire to be a member of a club I wasn’t entitled to join. The chance for occasional meetings with members and their guests as opportunities arose was good enough for me.
‘John, it’s great to see you. I hope you and the family had a good Christmas and New Year.’
George always seemed to be the life and soul of the place. Today, the tables in the small bar area sat empty apart from one elderly couple sipping glasses of wine. No one else was evident other than the barman, although other rooms and facilities up and down the stairways and dotted along the narrow corridors might have been occupied.
George pointed at his glass of wine with an unspoken question.
‘No thanks, I’ll have an orange juice and lemonade please.’
He frowned as I continued.
‘I’d prefer not to drink if we’re going to talk about business. I’ve had more than my fair share over the holidays.’ Then in answer to his original greeting. ‘Yes, all good at home. Happy New Year to you. I trust your family are well and you had a good Christmas.’
As we exchanged general chit-chat, I considered how to ask him about getting the customs issue quashed. I guessed he’d been involved in Pete’s dealings with the British establishment the previous year, so he might be keen to maintain a healthy distance from the ongoing prosecutions. Although he must know the whole thing was a shambles that should never get to court, I decided to wait until after the business meeting. No sense in risking any upset before I’d had the chance to review this new, unspecified opportunity.
‘Ah, George, so this is our man Mr Pierce,’ said a tall, expensively-tailored gentleman who had entered the bar area from the far doorway rather than the entrance nearest the stairs.
‘Mr Pierce, my name is Chapman. Please, we are waiting in a private meeting room through here.’
I looked at George, who made no move to get up from his chair.
‘Of course, Sandy. John is raring to go. Perhaps I’ll see you in the bar for a drink later?’
‘Might be a little busy with office work,’ said the grey-haired Chapman, casting a glance in my direction.
So, George wasn’t coming into the meeting. That was a surprise.
I assumed the invitation for a drink included me, so before standing up to shake hands and introduce myself to Chapman, I replied to George, ‘Sure, I’ll see you later.’
George frowned again. Maybe I wasn’t invited.
*
There was one other man in the meeting room. Shorter than Chapman, he had more of a bulldog look about him. If Chapman might be a retired ex-Guards officer, this chap had me visualising a current or recent special forces operator who had seen a few bullets and fists flying in his time. Whatever their backgrounds, we were meeting in a private room at the SF Club and everyone else was excluded. This was going to be interesting.
‘This is my colleague, Mr Roper,’ said Chapman. ‘Tea, coffee? I noticed that you hadn’t joined George for an afternoon tipple. Wise choice I think.’
‘Hi.’
Roper nodded in acknowledgement.
‘I’ll have a coffee. Thank you,’ I added.
Roper poured the coffee and an enquiring eyebrow lifted as he placed the pot down.
‘Just milk please.’ It had been a long time since I took the NATO standard milk and two sugars.
Roper had also poured a cup of tea for Chapman. An indication of the likely hierarchy here. It was an unusual atmosphere for a business meeting. No cards exchanged, job roles indicated, or other preliminary business small talk.
‘Mr Pierce, I work with the Foreign & Commonwealth Office of Her Majesty’s Government and there is a matter of some importance I need to discuss with you.’ Chapman’s hands were lightly clasped in front of him as he spoke in an emphatic, assured manner.
My first thought: we’re finally getting to the nitty-gritty of the customs issue. Fingers crossed my involvement would end here and now.
He continued. ‘To put it bluntly, it has been decided that your assistance is required to help resolve a matter in Iraq.’ The disdain with which he spoke indicated Chapman was not a fan of the idea. I didn’t know yet if I was a fan either.
‘Although your ready compliance in the matter would be welcomed, I should stress that this is a request for which your refusal to cooperate would have consequences. Consequences that would be detrimental to your business and your liberty.’
That got my back up straight away. ‘Hang on a minute, I’m not guilty of that customs nonsense…’ He held his hands up and I stopped in mid flow.
‘While we are aware of your involvement in a conspiracy plot being investigated by our colleagues in Customs and Excise, there is another, far more serious aspect to consider.’
What the hell was this guy on about? My mind raced and soon the incident in the Baghdad bazaar when I’d careered through the crowds loomed large. Shit. Perhaps I’d seriously hurt or killed somebody and now they’d caught up with me.
While he sipped at his tea and watched, I fidgeted and rubbed my jaw before looking at the ceiling, closing my eyes briefly, and letting out a sigh. I doubt I could have appeared guiltier – but of what?
‘You posed as a British intelligence officer to courier a message from terrorists demanding the handover of Iranian IED know-how and technology from militants operating in Basra. Your involvement in the incident at the Churchill Hotel involved similar deception. Taken together, these events cast severe doubt on your character and decision-making at the very least, and quite possibly evidence of your involvement with serious criminal and terrorist organisations.’
What the fuck! If I thought my mind was racing before, it was on steroids now.
‘The only reason you aren’t already being interviewed under caution is a brief appearance in our files regarding your creditable conduct during an operation in Bosnia in the early nineties, and references from George next door and your former commanding officer at SBS. Your previous Developed Vetting status whi
lst serving at Poole has also counted in your favour, although I suspect a repeat of that process might throw up some road bumps if it was ever tried again.
‘Personally, I counselled against it, but others have suggested you might be given the benefit of the doubt in order that you can provide us with some related assistance. However, that benefit of the doubt is contingent on my assessment regarding your culpability for your activity in Basra, the details of which I would like you to explain to me now please.’
I hung on his every word with a morbid fascination. His reference to ‘courier’ had caused an icy hand to clasp my insides. I might have really fucked up here. Surely Essam and the Al-Nura people weren’t terrorists. I had no idea if any of this was true, but I was already focusing on the ‘benefit of the doubt’ and how to ensure it came my way.
I felt very hot under the collar, literally, and interrupted him.
‘Do you mind?’ I reached for the top button of my shirt.
Chapman looked at me like I’d just walked dog shit across his living room carpet, but he nodded and picked up his cup of tea again. That was enough for me; I needed to get comfortable. I loosened my tie, took my jacket off, and hung it on the chair. It wasn’t particularly warm in the room, but I’d always had a high tolerance to the cold since my first few winters of Arctic warfare training. A glug of hot coffee did little to remedy my dry throat.
Before he could resume, I had a couple of questions and points to make.
‘Mr Chapman, firstly I delivered a message to a respectable member of the Basra Trade Chamber on behalf of business contacts in Dubai, but I had no knowledge of the contents of the private message. I have never posed as an intelligence officer and a postman doesn’t get prosecuted for the contents of the letters he delivers.’
As Chapman opened his mouth to speak again, I slipped in another point.
‘And secondly, the customs incident at the Churchill was a protective surveillance job. A favour in fact. I did nothing wrong. I didn’t impersonate anyone, and it will be dropped when they realise the facts.’
I looked from Chapman to Roper and back again. Both impassive, although Roper appeared to have an underlying smile on his face. Not necessarily a friendly one.
He had let me speak, but as soon as I finished Chapman continued as a teacher might after ignoring the desperate arguments of a guilty pupil. His face said as much.
‘Mr Pierce, the letter you hand-delivered in Basra was purportedly from the office of the Iraqi Prime Minister and declared you to be a British intelligence officer. The demands the Sheikh provide you with all necessary means and assistance to obtain the Iranian IED know-how were supposedly part of a joint intelligence initiative involving us, the Americans, and the Iraqi National Intelligence Service. Were it not for the fact that the Sheikh already worked with us, the subterfuge might even have worked. That’s despite the amateur nature of the forged letterhead, the factual inaccuracies contained within the letter, and the ridiculous use of terminology more at home in a James Bond film.’
He could have finished the last sentence with more contempt, but only if he’d really worked hard at it. I’d love to think they’d given me a ‘00’ number.
The nagging feeling this might spiral out of control sent adrenaline coursing through my veins. My hands pulsed with an energy that made them quiver. Looking down at them, I couldn’t figure out if they were actually shaking or my blood was just boiling with stimulants.
‘I never even saw the letter. I received the envelope in Dubai as part of a business project looking at viability in Basra.’
An eyebrow had taken leave of Chapman’s controlled demeanour and shot up in almost comical reaction, although it was quickly brought under control.
‘Dubai. Hmm… continue.’
He clearly hadn’t expected that. Hopefully this was a chance to show cooperation which might help calm things down.
‘Yes, a company in Dubai, Al-Nura Engineering. I was given the sealed letter by them to hand-deliver to the Sheikh. They claimed it was vital for obtaining business support in the Basra region.’
Chapman looked at Roper and back to me. Was that a good sign?
I threw out another piece of information. ‘I was directed to those guys through a businessman in Baghdad, Abu Saif al-Tikriti.’
Chapman had been calmness and reserve personified until that moment. At the mention of the name, he just couldn’t help the obvious interest from illuminating his face. If we’d been playing poker, it would have been a clear ‘tell’.
I was on a roll and sensed a way out of this mess. After all, I had nothing to hide.
‘I only met him a couple of times in Baghdad, but it was Abu Saif who introduced me to the Al-Nura guys as his business associates.’
A different set of stimulants streamed through my veins now. It felt more like endorphins as my mood soared. This could turn out all right.
‘You say you only met Abu Saif a couple of times. Would you recognise him if you saw him again?’ Chapman’s eyes shone with a fierce intensity.
A mental image of Abu Saif’s face and large frame sprung into my head.
‘Yes, I would.’
‘And do you have the details of the addresses you visited in Baghdad and Dubai? Would you also recognise the men you met in Dubai?’
Now I recalled Essam and his sidekick Ibrahim.
‘Definitely. I’d recognise the main two men from Dubai, yes. Possibly a couple of the people in the side office as well, including a woman, although I can’t remember her name off the top of my head. I have the address details for the office in Dubai and could identify one of the addresses in Mansour, in Baghdad. I don’t know the location of the first meeting with Abu Saif, but I can tell you it was in the Al-Adhamiya district of Baghdad.’
He rose out of his chair. ‘Very good, Mr Pierce. You’ll need to excuse me while I make a telephone call. Mr Roper will arrange for more tea and coffee. And perhaps some sandwiches?’ The last comment was thrown as a question towards Roper who nodded.
‘I’ll be back shortly,’ said Chapman as he left the room.
I let out a sigh and the energy drained from my body like water from a bath when the plug is pulled. Weariness sprung out from my bones and, at the mention of food, a ravenous hunger had taken hold. Roper’s bulky frame was disappearing through the door after Chapman as I called out, ‘Chicken salad would be good, or tuna mayonnaise.’
Surprisingly, Roper’s face popped back round the door. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
That was the first time I’d heard him speak.
Chapman remained absent for a good twenty minutes. Long enough for me and Roper to making serious headway into the collection of sandwiches which now sat in the middle of the table. I still felt weary, but drinking plenty of water, polishing off three decent sandwiches, and making myself a strong coffee had helped regulate my body’s natural fight, flight, and panic modes. Mentally, I was coming to terms with the evolving situation. It’s not like being aggressively interviewed was a new experience for me. I needed to stop making a habit of it though.
Chapman came back into the room, closed the door behind him, and took his seat. After pouring himself a cup of tea and taking a first sip, he set the cup down and turned towards me.
‘Right, I’ve discussed our conversation with my colleagues and it has been decided we should explore the possibility of you providing us with assistance in Iraq. I am unable to tell you any more about this aspect until you have provided a full statement regarding the events you described in Baghdad and Dubai, the people involved, and the addresses concerned. Only then will a decision be taken as to how we should proceed.’
So, they wanted me to do some work for them in Iraq. I needed the money, but I also wanted to know how much.
‘Okay, that’s fine. Do you want me to do that now, or perhaps tomorrow?’
�
�We’re going to do it now, Mr Pierce.’
I’d thought as much. ‘And I assume I’ll be paid for this work?’
The silence and that look again on Chapman’s face made me think I assumed wrong, but I blundered on, nonetheless.
‘Or is the intention just to give me something in writing to say I won’t be prosecuted for Basra… and the customs thing?’
If we’d been practising the iconic scene from Oliver Twist, I don’t think he could have pulled off a better look as though he was Mr Bumble and I’d just asked for ‘more.’
‘This isn’t Hollywood. We’re not making a deal. I’m going to make the position crystal clear for you. While it is accepted you might have unwittingly acted as a courier for a terrorist organisation attempting to procure a capability that would have a detrimental impact on Coalition forces throughout Iraq, ignorance is no defence as far as us and our American cousins are concerned. You are being offered the opportunity to redeem yourself and this matter can be swept away. However, if you do not agree, today, to provide us with the assistance we seek at the appropriate time, then we will share everything we know about your terrorist-related activities with our American friends. Rest assured, they will deal with you far more harshly than us. They have a tendency to act first and eventually start asking questions a long time later.’
With no real idea of what they were asking me to do, it was difficult to assess whether to agree to help these guys, who I assumed were spooks. MI6 or one of the closely linked departments that operated in the shadows. It wasn’t going to be much of an assessment though. I’d have to say yes. The alternative sounded untenable. I could only hope this ‘assistance’ they sought was something a) I could actually accomplish and b) wouldn’t get me killed or otherwise fucked up.
Chapman replaced his now empty teacup on the saucer after polishing off the rest of his drink and giving his words time to air.
‘So, what is it you are asking me to do?’